At precisely 8:07 A.M., our office assistant, Priyanka “Pinky” Malhotra, and I wished each other good morning as I stopped by her desk, or the administrative office as she preferred to call it.

The marketing-public relations department occupied a corner suite made up of three rooms, the first one being a main outer office with Pinky’s desk, a row of file cabinets, a fax machine, a copier, and a coffeemaker. It opened out into the long main corridor, but in the back it had two doors that led to separate offices, the smaller one being mine and the larger belonging to my boss, Paul Zelnak. The only access to Paul’s and my offices was through Pinky’s area. She was our gatekeeper.

Locking her door conveniently locked the entire department. I appreciated the safety feature.

Pinky took one look at me and beamed, the dimple in one cheek deepening. “Meena, you look great!” She swiveled her chair around to study my outfit more carefully. “Went on another shopping spree?”

“Uh-huh.”

Then her gaze lowered to my feet. “Wow, new shoes, too. Nice.”

I gave her a pleased grin. I’d hoped others would love my ensemble as much as I did. After I’d spent hours in the store looking for a fall wardrobe, it would’ve been a letdown if someone hadn’t noticed. “Thanks.”

Pinky looked down at her own black pantsuit paired with a blue shell and black mid-heel pumps. “Everything I wear looks so blah. How come when you wear the exact same thing it looks all stylish and cute?”

“Aw, that’s not true,” I said with a dismissive gesture of my hand. If only Pinky ate a few less candy bars, she’d be attractive. She had a pretty face with sparkling dark eyes and an infectious smile. Losing a bit of weight could work wonders for her. And the slightly outdated black pantsuit could look elegant if it were paired with a coordinated scarf or jewelry.

Pinky was a good worker and a kind soul, and she had become a friend and confidant in the short while that I’d been working in the company. Besides, as a forty-year-old mother of two young boys, Pinky didn’t really need to look chic. She’d bagged her man sixteen years ago, and he apparently loved her, spare tires and all.

“It is true, Meena,” Pinky argued. “That’s because you’re young and thin and pretty.”

I shrugged. “Thin yes, young maybe . . . but pretty? I don’t know about that.” And frankly, I didn’t feel all that young anymore, not since my thirty-first birthday two months ago.

My parents and our extended family had dropped more than a few hints about my flagging biological clock, my soon-to-fade looks, and my shorter than average stature—my bane. The consensus was that if I didn’t find a husband within a year, I was quite likely to die an old maid.

With each passing year I was supposedly inching closer to tooth loss, dementia, and osteoporosis. I’d probably lose even more inches because small women were more susceptible to bone deterioration, according to Shabari, my mother’s younger sister.